When Greenwich Village Was Ours!: (Memories from Those Who Grew up There)

By Alfred Canecchia

When Greenwich Village Was Ours! is a collection of written memoirs and short stories from various people who grew up in Greenwich Village, New York City.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781669803607

Alfred Canecchia

Alfred Joseph Canecchia was born and raised in Greenwich Village in Manhattan. He received his higher education at the City College of New York and New York University. He is retired after working for the NYC Board of Education for thirty-four and a half years. He lives in Riverdale Bronx and Margate Florida with his wife Roberta.

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Copyright © 2022 by Alfred Canecchia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/13/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

836084

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

Greenwich Villagers of every era.

We lived in a special environment.

We now realize, its effect on us had

no limitations, from distance and time.

Special thanks to Gary & Kate Lazarus

for well needed technical assistance.

When we fail to tell stories,

we risk forgetting who we are, where

we came from and the magic of what

we had.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Peter Arcuri

Thompson Street

Richard (Little Rich) Artigiani

The Best Of Times

George (Butch) Barbezat

What A Change!

Sandra Briand

Air Cycling

Thomas Bruno

My Neighborhood

Alfred Canecchia

Rainbows Over Venice

Carole Canecchia

Fire Escape Window

Linda Canessa

Papa Didn’t Preach!

Michael Carbone

Greenwich Village Vignettes-Continued

Lorraine Catalano

There’s No Place Like Home

Anthony Decamillo

The Crying Knish Man

Paula Denicola

Greenwich Village, My Magical Kingdom

Paul De Paolo

64 MacDougal

Kathleen Firth

The Starfish/Just The Friend I Needed

Dennis Genovese

Father Albanese & The Little Girl

Dominick Joseph Genovese

Growing Up In Greenwich Village

David Hunt

Uptown Came Downtown My Time In The Village

Rocco John Iacovone

Physics 101

Robert Leake

Call To The Local DJ

Carla Lewis

I Know How Great It Is!

PHOTO GALLERY

Richard Lorraine

Growing Up In Greenwich Village

John Marsicovetere

My Life In Greenwich Village

Charles Messina

The Bomber Boys

Frederick (Freddy Bop) Nocetti

I Wouldn’t Change A Thing

David Noferi

Leroy Street Pool

Louis Nunez

Remembrances Of A Village Kid

Jean Paladino

The Village

Ricardo Pecora

Does Anybody Speak Spanish?

Robert Perazzo

Holy Saturday

Dominick Perruccio

The Summer Of 68

Francine Raggi

Do Black People Cry Black Tears Do Bad Things Happen To Good People?

Antonia Rosa

Being Married To Tony Orlando

Ralph Sabatino

A Unique Place

Mitzi Schuster

Happy Days

Roger Segalini

Growing Up In The Village In The 1950’S

Salvatore Tofano

John’s Pizzeria – Two Jouneys From Different Directions

Joseph Turchiano

Sweet Sixteen Party November 29, 1963

Paul Volpe

Macdougal Between Bleecker & W. 3rd St.’s

Yolanda Volpe

Stuck In A Locker

Carol Ann Zuar

Mother Doesn’t Always Know What’s Best

Contributors

INTRODUCTION

by Alfred Canecchia

When Greenwich Village Was Ours is a collection of anecdotes, essays, short stories and remembrances from and by people who grew up or lived in the Village during the formative years of their lives. It is about a place that was a real neighborhood before gentrification, urbanization and the commercialization of New York City neighborhoods made these communities unrecognizable to those who once lived there. This is a time period before huge corporations were the only ones who could afford the exorbitant rents of today. It was when Mom and Pop enterprises dominated the landscape. A time when we contributing writers had pride in our neighborhood, which was highly self-sufficient and safe, and above all absolutely unique. Italian food, bread, pastry and pizza shops flourished. Clubs to see comedians, musicians and theatres for drama abounded. Street artists as well as sculptors and minstrels were omnipresent. In the flux of time all things change. Especially in a cosmopolitan city that has always welcomed immigrants the world over. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.* Greenwich Village is one of the many neighborhoods that lived up to this ideal.

These are true stories that happened in Greenwich Village when it was ours. And because of these memories, we know as long as it remains in our hearts, that it will always belong to those who lived and grew up there.

• *Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus.

PETER ARCURI

Thompson Street

I can vividly recall one warm summer afternoon as I stood eating a hot dog on the corner of Thompson Street and Washington Square South. It was 1970. As I enjoyed my hot dog, I was instructed to eat only half and return with the uneaten portion to give to a guy in a van parked around the corner. When I returned with the uneaten portion, the guy in the van was outraged! He drove the van to the hot dog stand and began to curse, You ____ sucker, you’re not buying my onions!

I was instructed to tip over his hot dog cart, so I obeyed with great enthusiasm. I’ll always remember the boiling water pouring on the street, buns and dogs rolling everywhere. The guy in the van was GI Joe Sternfeld, a Jewish mobster who spoke out of the side of his mouth. With GI Joe, every other word was a curse. He was also Tommy Ryan Eboli’s driver.

When I was 16, Thompson Street was the center of my life. Eboli was the head of the Genovese crime family. Thompson Street was, and remains, only eight blocks long, bordered by Washington Square South and 4th Street on the North and Canal Street as its southern border. However, Thompson Street snaked its way through four different neighborhoods. NYU from Washington Square South to 3rd Street owned everything except the Judson Memorial Hall where we played basketball, went to the dentist and received our vaccinations. Third Street to West Houston, crossing Bleecker, was the heart of Greenwich Village, home to the beatniks, hippies and preppies. Crossing West Houston brought you into the South Village, now known as SoHo. South of Houston, past Prince to Spring Street was its own neighborhood. The North Thompson Street kids went to Our Lady of Pompeii School. South Thompson kids went to St. Anthony of Padua School, and the most southern kids went to St. Alphonse’s on lower Thompson and Canal Street.

I lived on the cusp of Thompson and West Houston, so I went to St. Anthony’s. My classmates were mostly Italian. Some were Irish, and in the late 50’s we saw an influx of Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Portuguese and Cubans. Our melting pot was most unique. Sunday’s aromas of meatballs, macaroni, rice, beans and fried bananas would waft through the buildings. We all got along. One of my best friends to this day is a Cuban kid who arrived in 1959. Our gang was like a United Nations Conference – every ethnic group was represented.

My parents moved to Thompson Street after WW2, when apartments were scarce. Their first apartment was only considered to be temporary, but lasted twenty years. My family history on Thompson Street dates back to the early 1900’s. My uncle and his brothers, fresh from Sicily, opened La Nova Grocery on 100 Thompson Street. My dad was born on King Street and worked there as a kid. In the 1960’s they moved the store to 555 2nd Avenue, and it was renamed Todaro Bros. I was lucky to own a bike and luckier still to park it at Jean’s Pocketbook Store across the street from me. For a couple of dollars a month, she would store the neighborhood’s bikes and strollers. Everyone had a key. As I recall it now, I wonder, how would that work today?

The store closed when it became infested with mice. I used to pedal north from my house toward Bleecker Street. I knew every crack, bump and groove in the concrete. There was even a horse stable a few buildings north of mine. The horses would crap up and down Thompson Street. The smell of horse droppings would lure the rats out of the building, so I would always cross the street to avoid them. The opposition to rats runs deep in every New Yorker’s veins. We had many derelict hotels. The ones on my corner were the famous Mills Hotel and the Bleecker Hotel. We had a chicken market that added to the smell of urine and couldn’t quite disguise the overarching aroma of spent, cheap liquor bottles and horse feces. I’d hang a right on Bleecker and spy The Bitter End, The Other End, The Mori Building, The Bleecker Street Cinema, and many, many cafes as I rode my bike. The original entrance to The Village Gate was on Thompson, just opposite the stable that housed the horses. Just north on Bleecker was The Back Fence and the slaughterhouse for the chickens. You could buy anything live, have it slaughtered, quartered, drained, butchered and ready for that evening’s meal.

Oh the scents of Thompson Street! My bike rides would continue right onto La Guardia Place, in essence, West Broadway. This was long before Morton Williams was there. Back then, it was Grand Union and then NYU took over. There were razed buildings across on LaGuardia, now 505 LaGuardia Place that housed an old army and navy surplus store. As kids, we would play in the debris and build underground forts. Our Imaginations ran wild with each new bit of dirt we would unearth.

Riding at full speed, I would turn right again on West Houston. On the corner was Lillian Hardware, the exact spot where this old man would sit outside most days. One day in 1961, I stopped and talked to him. He said he was over 100 years old and that he had been in the Civil war. I was 7 and was very impressed. Much later, I would calculate that he would have been a child fighting in the war in 1861. I was still impressed!

Arturo’s Pizza was located on MacDougal and West Houston during the late 1960’s prior to its present location. In its place was home to Hi’s Bicycle Shop. Most of the Thompson Street area was still very Italian, save for the sprinklings of other ethnicities. This was long before supermarkets, so we shopped in mom and pop specialty stores. Ralph’s Baccala Store, Frank’s Butcher, Molinari’s Grocery Store. There were pork stores and bakeries everywhere, each contributing to the acrid but comforting aromas that made Thompson Street home. Next to Rocco’s Restaurant, Alfonse’s Candy Store would briefly close on Sunday afternoon to allow the family to enjoy their Sunday dinner.

One of my earliest memories is of Vito Genovese sitting outside my building, operating the attached store where he sold bootleg cigarettes and conducted street business. My building was one of the taller ones, on the block, so suicides and murders were common. When a person jumped, fell, or was pushed, they would tumble a ways then get tangled in the clotheslines strewn across the courtyard. I remember a woman who jumped or got pushed and predictably got tangled in the mess of lines. The police removed the body but left her slipper behind. I remember rushing home from school each day to see if the slipper was still there. It remained for over a year in the courtyard.

The Mafia was everywhere on Thompson Street, which made it an extremely safe neighborhood. In addition to the Boys, everyone watched out for each other. I had 30 mothers growing up. Long before safe houses, we had Social Clubs. Actual chartered venues selling booze, playing card games and organized dancing. The Venus Club was on Thompson Street, just south of Bleecker. The Sky Top Club was there too, but south of Houston, across the street from Frankie & Louie’s club. South of Prince was the 400 Club. All except the Venus Club were operated by neighborhood guys. The Venus Club belonged to Vincent the Chin Gigante. As a kid, along with the entire neighborhood, I vowed to never refer to him by that name.

I made a mistake a year later when referring to him by rubbing my chin to gain entrance to the Copacabana to see the Four Seasons. Of course, they sat us right up front, and Frankie Valli came by to shake my hand. I caught a harsh slap in the face the next day when I was called to his club at 208 Sullivan Street. As his heavy hand left my face, he said, How’s your mom? Send my love. Ironically, I was not related to him but was with his cousin and 14 year old niece while trying to access the Copa.

Another story I remember took place at a Fourth of July party on my roof at 172 Thompson Street. Our apartment was on the top floor, just one short staircase to the roof. My dad was a chef and would make pizzas from scratch and deliver them to the roof. Vinnie always supplied the fireworks. We used to throw them off the roof often without looking. When we were about 10 years old, Vinnie’s oldest son’s pants caught on fire. Apparently, he had fireworks in his pocket! Vinnie came running over and started tearing his son’s pockets off. He was Vinnie and he was the hero of the neighborhood. His four sisters-in-law were scattered along my block on Thompson Street, so I was like an adopted nephew. We all knew he was the head of the Five Families – it took the FBI 30 years to figure it out. He was not feared like John Gotti but loved and respected by all. During the Venus Club’s years of operation, Eddie The Blonde took over running the club. I actually worked for him for a time. I ran the club in the early hours up till midnight, then we would clear out. Every time I would ask Eddie a question he would respond, Use your own discretion. I was 16 at the time, and all the kids would drink, play cards, play the jukebox, and make out. I didn’t play cards or drink, so I was perfect for the job. I collected 10 percent of every pot for the house. I also ran the Sky Top Club and collected the same amount from Ned. The Sky Top Club was run by Nunzio Ned Genovese, my future neighbor on Broome Street. He also ran Milady’s Bar. Whenever I hung out to play pool at Milady’s, Ned would always make fashion suggestions – match this color and cut your hair! Ned was watching out for me. He turned into my landlord and lived across the hall from me when my family moved to 552 Broome Street. This little stretch of Thompson near Prince was run by the Eastside Boys. I never knew why.

A later Fourth of July, we were hanging outside Milady’s when someone lit a case of firecrackers. Well, they thought it was a case. But, unfortunately, it was a case of M80’s. Every window within 100 feet of the explosion was broken, except for the windows of Milady’s. Talk about neighborhood protection!

In 1966, when I was 12, my family moved to Broome Street, between 6th Avenue and Varick Street. I was forced to desert my beloved Thompson Street. I became a Broome Street Bomber. Luckily, just a short hop past 6th Avenue was Lower Thompson, a different culture, more street and gutsier. I had been a northern Thompson Street boy my entire life and attended the Morosini Club on Sullivan – kindergarten, after school basketball. We were 1969 Kiwanis Basketball Champs for the Morosini Club. Lower Thompson had less mom and pop stores but more neighborhood car buffs and bikers. It had an edge to it. It was dark and deserted on Lower Thompson. The neighborhood guys and bikers would gather outside the laundromat at 57 Thompson and drink and guard the lower end of the street all the way to Canal Street.

1967 was the summer of love and I was living on Broome. Thompson and Bleecker were experiencing anti-war protests. Almost every day, Washington Square Park was buzzing with activists. Thompson south of Houston was business as usual, still clinging to Doo-Wop music, which could often be heard outside of the clubs at night. You could walk a block and stumble upon bands of boys harmonizing in any little alley for better acoustics.

The other Band of Boys had their various businesses in the street. Numbers was the big one. You would bet the last three numbers of the Total Mutual Handling at any given racetrack. Then, as the numbers came out around 2-3 o’clock when the racetracks closed, runners would run with their fingers in the air